Shapes and Shards Verse
by WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: Collection of stories about the Deep-Space Nine daemon-verse. Summary of chapter three: "When Kira was a girl, she wanted a daemon just like her mother's. But in the end, they have some intrinsic differences."
1. Chapter 1

This is the problem:

When Dr. Mora Pel finds Odo floating in the vacuum of space, alone and thousands of kilometers from any other sentient lifeform, no one even considers the possibility that he is not a daemon.

Well, alright. First the excited scientists consider the possibility that they have found an amorphous mass of concentrated Rusakov Particles (or 'Dust'), which would be a bizarre phenomenon. Nothing, except for daemons, give off Rusakov Particles in such quantities. But then while Dr. Mora is examining the mass with his own daemon, a bronze simian named Lilima, the form shifts, twists, and morphs into an exact copy of her.

When people look at an animal, there is a sense – unexplainable, and, many would claim, unquantifiable – which makes it readily apparent whether or not the creature is 'natural' or a daemon. Scientists on Earth connected this determination with Rusakov radiation sometime in the 18th century, Bajorans much earlier.

So they understand inherently that he is a daemon. His need for regeneration, and his strange ability to mimic inorganic forms, are scrutinized with glee. But he is an aberration, not something altogether new. Because he does not have a traditional name he is _Odo'Ital, _unknown sample, and they wonder what strange, Separated child of a long-lived race is currently wandering the stars without his or her companion.

Not that anyone, aside from Odo, really ponders this last question too long.

* * *

Science will never be the first love of Cardassia, but sometimes there comes a despot who fancies himself a learned man, and a benevolent force for good. Or, at the very least, a decadent one. Science which benefits weapons, engineering and other starship technology is grudgingly tolerated; the other forms are indulgences.

Gul Dukat is an indulgent man.

Nevermind that millions of Bajorans go hungry, that the labor camps are bursting and children are dying in the streets of Bajor's once-proud capital. "An unbound daemon," Dukat exclaims when he hears about Odo. "What fun!" And he dreams of grand scientific discoveries, vague and undefined – he's not a woman, after all – which will bring Bajor, and his name, to the attention of the quadrant. The possibilities are endless; Mora even predicts that with investigation of Odo's situation they might bring about breakthroughs concerning the nature of Separation and Severing. So with his right hand Dukat signs a grant for extravagant research on 'Odo'Ital', and with his left he signs a budget-cut on a labor-camp that specializes in (making) Severed youths.

All good Cardassian leaders are ambidextrous.

* * *

At first Dr. Mora sticks strictly to science, which is in itself grueling work. Plucked from the vast, languid silence of space and forced onto the almost frantic energy of Bajor, Odo is overwhelmed enough simply trying to process the fresh stimuli. The fact that he is the focus of so much unwelcome attention makes an already difficult situation almost unbearable.

They want to test his limits and capabilities, first and foremost, which is about as unpleasant as it sounds. What forms he can successfully imitate; for how long; what mass and volume he can attain; color variations; Dust radiation; how long he can go before his strange need to 'regenerate', as it is termed, asserts itself. This last need is stretched out with a careful application of electric shocks, as though Dr. Mora suspects that Odo is simply being lazy. Odo struggles to hold a physical form as long as he can, but the stability of his matrix shudders and flakes and vibrates madly every sixteen hours. He doesn't understand _pain _until Mora makes him resist the urge to regenerate, but the word gains new meaning after that.

He learns speech quickly, of course, which surprises no one; daemons can always speak. It is unusual for him to talk directly to the Bajorans, but more efficient, and anyway it is not as though he has his own companion to intercede.

No one is bothered much when he asks to be released, when he says the electric shocks hurt. He is a daemon without a partner; of course he is easily upset, and weak, and prone to fits of hysteria. This is expected. It is one of few things about Odo which fits expectations.

The most sympathetic of the scientists is a young assistant named Lira Yern. Though prone to sympathy for Odo, Yern is overly-anxious about her position as Mora's assistant – and a Bajoran in good graces with the stone-faced 'Cardassian' who hovers in the corner of the lab day and night – to ever make a gesture of help.

And, as Dr. Mora says: "Don't get attached, Miss Lira. His person could die at any time, poof, and he'll just disappear. No one lasts long without a daemon."

The general agreement is that 'Severed' children should be sent to the Prophets for their own good. Odo, who is always listening, always learning, knows about the Prophets. The Bajorans seem to love them, and the Cardassians hate them. The Cardassians are the gray-and-green scaled bipeds who enter sometimes, tall and proud, and shout orders at the Bajorans. When they come they typically want work to go faster, which means the Bajorans typically have to make _Odo _do things faster, and that's painful. So Odo's not crazy about the Cardassians.

Yern's daemon Neri, which is a shy species of creature called a porli, is the closest thing to what the Bajoran's call a 'friend'. Odo likes Neri's wings, although Neri isn't very good at using them – he's a rather awkward flier, and apparently in the 'wild', a somewhat vague concept that Neri awkwardly describes as referring to open spaces with lots of free-ranging, non-daemon creatures that _look like _daemons, porli are eaten by Bajorans fairly often. Odo doesn't eat, himself, and doesn't see why Bajorans must eat, so this is an especially horrifying concept.

Odo isn't sure he wants to be anyone's daemon, if it means things like accepting the fact that your Bajoran eats your kind, and being stuck shuffling behind someone else for eternity. Not that being stuck doing experiments forever is _better, _but...

Honestly, there isn't much of anything Odo looks forward to, so much as things he tries to avoid.

One day, though, Dr. Mora clears the lab and takes Odo into a small room alone – just him, Odo and his own daemon, Lilima. He leaves Odo in a forcefield container, leaves briefly, and then returns, wheeling in a young, dark-haired woman.

Odo doesn't recognize her, not that this means much. His poor memory for faces has already been noted by the research team, leading the Bajorans to speculate that his companion is from a species physiologically distant from their own, since most daemons have good facial recognition. But he analyzes this woman's features carefully. Something about the way Dr. Mora curls his hands around her shoulders worries him.

"Odo," Dr. Mora says. "This is Pelen. She's your companion."

Naturally, that makes her much more interesting.

* * *

Forcefields in place around the room, Dr. Mora allows Odo to approach the mysterious, silent woman.

All in all, he's a little suspicious.

Neri always seems positively confused when Odo asks about the daemon-bond. "It's just there," he'll say. And, when Odo asks if he _likes _Yern, "How could I not?"

But Odo doesn't feel that simple, obvious, of-course sensation with this Bajoran. He doesn't feel _anything, _actually. He even slowly, hesitantly reaches out and brushes a paw against her – he's in the form of a hara cat right now – and waits for a response. Dr. Mora tenses like he expects one, too. Odo knows touching is supposed to be a big deal for Bajorans and daemons, for some reason.

But, no. Nothing.

Dr. Mora looks conflicted. "If you weren't bonded, you would feel violated by a touch like that," he assures Odo.

"I don't think we're bonded," he says flatly.

Odo has seen Bajorans fib, cajole and outright lie to Cardassian overseers enough to know when he's being tricked, thank you.

Now the doctor just looks angry. "You're bonded. You don't have anyone else, why does it matter? Don't you want to leave?"

"Not like this. Not with her."

"Are you saying she isn't good enough?"

Odo tilts his cat-head, staring at the man.

" - We're doing research into broken bonds," Mora finally says, haltingly. "This could be very important."

Odo sighs at the obvious lie, but this relative freedom is better than the tiny cube he's typically crammed into at night. He considers the woman, then grudgingly goes to curl up by her side.

She stares sightlessly into the distance.

Dr. Mora begins talking about something – science. Lovely. That'll jog her memories, sure. Odo ignores him.

The girl can do simple tasks, but only on command. When prompted she blankly starts to knit – poorly, automatically – until her fingers are raw and cracked. Her nail catches and starts to bleed; she keeps knitting, knitting, knitting, until the doctor notices and tells her to stop.

This goes on for a few hours. Then Odo is taken out of the room, the girl is wheeled away, and he's sworn to secrecy.

Scientific procedure at its finest, no doubt.

* * *

This pattern repeats for the next few days. First Doctor Mora appears hopeful, then upset, then angry. "You're not even trying," he scolds Odo.

"Of course not," Odo responds. "What's the point?"

Mora fumes. "I'm trying to help you!"

"You're talking physics to a Severed girl," Odo points out, having finally realized the truth of the matter. "You haven't said a word to me outside work in a week."

"You're a daemon! Lilima talks to you!"

Odo just scoffs.

Lilima is a _shadow, _he wants to say. He wants to say other things, too. Like daemons are too quiet, too still, too meek – that there is something wrong and lifeless and _flat _about them. They 'feel' and move and speak and by all accounts act out every semblance of intelligence, these Bajoran companions, but they always ring hollow. Maybe he is just arrogant, or maybe he is just going insane without his own companion, but something about the daemons just seems wrong. He looks at them and sees reflections, mirrors, not life.

And sometimes, when he looks at daemons, it takes all of his willpower not to reach out and strike them violently.

(He has a feeling it would be _especially _unwise to mention that last bit).

So, because Mora doesn't really want honesty, Odo says nothing at all. Only sits there, tail twitching.

Grumbling darkly, Mora takes him away.

* * *

Odo asks Yern about the woman a few days later.

"Pelen?" Yern asks. "That's Dr. Mora's daughter. When did you meet her?"

When Odo explains, it's impossible to miss Yern's unease. Neri twitches and twitters, eyeing their Cardassian overseer and the man's wide-eyed serpent uneasily. "...I see," Yern finally mumbles.

"What?"

"I don't think you should see Mora Pelen any more, Odo," she whispers.

"I wasn't aware that I could _make choices," _Odo mocks. "How nice."

Yern shifts. "I'm serious."

"So am I."

"Odo, I - "

Yern quiets as the Cardassian swaggers near their station, glaring down at Odo's tank. Odo, unfazed, hisses for no other reason than that he can; the Cardassian sneers, but trying to figure out how to punish the lonely daemon is more trouble than it's worth, so he walks on.

"I'll explain later," Yern lies.

"Sure," Odo sighs. He feels tired, suddenly. "Whatever you want."

* * *

Naturally, he sees Pelen again.

Because Odo is a daemon, and because he is an an experiment, and because _what did Yern expect? _So he lets Dr. Mora drag him along, and sits by the mute woman again, but today he has a question.

"Where is her daemon?" He asks Dr. Mora.

The doctor stops. Stutters.

"_You _are her daemon," he says at last.

"If someone loses their daemon, they die," Odo says. "Severed or not. She's not dead. So where's her daemon?"

"Right here," Dr. Mora grinds out.

"Wouldn't it make more sense to bring her own daemon?" Odo asks. He's honestly curious. He's only heard a little about Severing from the scientists – enough to know that it's 'incurable' – but he doesn't see what the doctor is planning to accomplish here.

He _does _know, after all, that you can't transplant a daemon bond.

Mora is angry. He keeps glancing at Pelen, too, as though she might overhear, but the woman is doing her endless knitting. A scarf, apparently, and a long one. It's wide and lumpy and ten feet long, and she folds the needles in, out, in, out, staring straight ahead.

Odo is angry, suddenly.

"You're not a scientist. You're not a doctor. You're not even a _father_. She's gone, and I'm sorry, but _I can't change that._"

Mora lurches to his feet.

In the sudden silence, they both hear the gentle _clack, clack, clack _of Pelen's needles.

* * *

It's somehow not a surprise when Mora's plan is discovered. It's not even a surprise when the Cardassians decide that all of Mora's research was fraudulent – and that, accordingly, Odo isn't worth the interest or security that's been afforded to him.

"You were like a son to me," Mora tells him in the end.

"You wanted a daughter," Odo answers. "But you already have one, and she's all you're going to get."

He's set loose on a devastated world, alone and friendless.

It hurts to feel so grateful.

* * *

Perhaps in another age Odo could have grown to love Bajor; but the Occupation has no sympathy for one suffering soul among millions.

He is spared the indignity of physical needs, at least – food, water or shelter. But it is a harsh, lonely place, and does little to redeem his cynical view of the world. Everywhere he turns holds chaos, disorder, destruction. Worse, _corruption,_like Dr. Mora's own selfish manipulation of Odo's situation.

If there is one thing Odo cannot stomach, it's corruption.

* * *

Ironically, Odo tries to be someone's daemon exactly once.

He's takes to wandering Dalarr province as a hara cat after a run-in with a young zealot who seems personally offended by his existence, convinced that Odo is the ghost of a restless spirit roused by the Cardassian presence. Odo is more of the opinion that hardship has driven the persecuted man to see the Prophets in every shadow, but the result is that he's taken to hiding from both Bajorans _and _Cardassians now. Hiding as a daemon is a good way to go unnoticed, but not perfect; after all, every daemon should be by the side of _someone, _so walking alone either declares that he's – well, himself – or Separated, which in present times indicates a likely spy and is nearly as dangerous. He's just contemplating how to fix this particular dilemma when he spots her.

She's sitting alone, hunched over under the shade of a purple jala tree. She looks scrawny, which is why he firsts notices her; dirty, is his second thought. Too, too still, for a child of only perhaps eight or so, but that is not so strange these days; many people are starving, and those with too little food start to grow sluggish.

He wonders, almost absently, if she's going to die.

It's not a cruel thought; just a practical one. People die often. Still, he thinks it strange that no one even looks at her twice. She's standing right off the main road. This isn't a _particularly _poor area, as they go, and yet no one is stopping to offer her a word. Even a gentle-eyed Vedek, walking by, glances at her and walks on, though with a slight sigh. And the Cardassians don't even snap at her for loitering.

So Odo watches, and watches, and watches, until he realizes, and he thinks, _oh._

Because she has no daemon.

It should have been obvious, especially after his recent misadventure with Mora Pelen. But now he understands that she's Severed, and almost certain to die soon. The Cardassians have a camp nearby where they Sever workers, he's heard, but only adults, and only for crimes – he wonders how this child was affected. Certainly not for any crime of her own. Probably she's the relative of a terrorist, and was used to extract information about a specific cell. After all, if a rebel were Severed themselves they would just be rendered useless. The Severed don't care about anything.

He pads up to her, partly from curiosity, partly from pity. Mora Pelen was one thing. A tragedy, but a distant one, and almost offensive. It was easy to see her as an enemy, undeserved or not, when Mora Pel kept forcing Odo on her. But this girl – so young, and already sentenced to death – this is harder to bear.

He almost wishes -

"Are you alright?"

Startled, he looks up.

A concerned Vedek – the same one from earlier, looking both concerned and a little chagrined – is addressing the blank-gazed girl. She, of course, does not reply.

Then, little nose twitching, the Vedek's hyurin daemon scurries over to Odo. "Is something wrong?" she asks.

They think Odo is the girl's daemon! Naturally – it makes more sense than the actual truth, he thinks bitterly. More palatable, too. He's about to correct the little rodent, then pauses.

He thinks of Mora Pelen, with her pair of knitting needles. In, out. Again and again. Drained and blank and empty, but not dead.

And this little girl, with no one to look after her...

"She's hurt," Odo says. " - She – she's been like this awhile."

"What's her name?"

Odo doesn't pause. "Tera," he says. "Her name's Tera."

* * *

Children are resilient. Odo knows this. Is fairly sure of it, at least. The scientists whispered it to each other, sometimes, when they talked of personal matters outside the overseer's hearing. _Children are resilient. _It's a common motto. Money tight? Military troops lining the streets? A neighboring Gul is harassing your daughter, your rebel son has been shot, your cousin's baby is starving, never fear – _children are resilient. _

Tera doesn't seem so strong.

The temple is a quiet place, and it suits her, but not in a good way. Sometimes strong winds blow through the thin walls, and when it whistles by Odo thinks he can hear it whistling through her bones, ready to blow her apart. She's frail, small, and smaller by the day. He doesn't even care how debasing a form he might take, if he thinks it could possibly cheer her. He shape-shifts fluidly through every Bajoran animal he can imagine, and some that don't exist, and a few secret forms that he shouldn't be able to manage at all. He curls around her at night with the warm and protective embrace of a Krelo bear, as a real daemon world, and stalks her feet by day; but she never wavers, and the bond he never cared to try and muster with Pelen can't be formed with her, either. This time, though, it stings.

* * *

"Is she going to die?" Odo asks.

Vedek Maran gives him a long, measuring look; his daemon chatters suspiciously. Then the Vedek says, "The Prophets always have a plan. It is not my place to know your path."

Emphasis on _your._

Odo stiffens. But the Vedek says nothing else. He continues about his business, and if he harbors any suspicions – and he must – he keeps them to himself.

* * *

By the fourth day, there is no use even trying to rouse Tera from bed. She stops following commands, and simply stares blankly into the distance, sometimes weeping silently, often twitching her hands as though reaching, searching. Odo does not go near her hands – does not feel he has the right.

So he stays by her side, in the faithful form of a hara cat, and waits. He can almost feel the life seeping away from her. There's a waxen, unnatural glow to her skin, a faint mockery of vigor. She looks almost healthy; that's how he knows she's about to die.

And this, too; as the Vedek chants, she turns her head, looking down at Odo. "Are you my Reditiva?" she whispers.

And how he wishes he could honestly say - "_Yes._"

Tera smiles, and reaches out to tuck a hand in his fur.

Then she dies.

(And Odo, of course, does not).

* * *

Seasons change, and years, and other little numbers.

It doesn't mean as much as the memory _Reditiva._

Odo still wonders, sometimes, where the Severed daemons go when their Bajorans are released.

* * *

Still, Odo is left with his earlier problem. Wherever he goes, everyone assumes he's someone's Severed companion, or a spy, and either way he attracts far too much attention, and all unwelcome. He could live in the 'wild' that Neri mentioned, but he has to admit there is a part of him that likes being around others. The thought of being entirely without contact is unbearable. And, though he will not say this to anyone aloud, he would like to one day know where he is from. If he finds his companion and then is dissatisfied... well. No one can force him to stay, right?

But surely he should have the _option._

So. Surely there is something he can do besides stalk disturbed orphans. Perhaps just take a very noticeable form, and let it be known that he has no companion? Bajorans gossip, after all. A Krelo bear, or an extinct animal, or perhaps...

Well. _Bajorans _are animals, aren't they?

Odo can becomes a rock, a tree, part of the walls – it unnerves people so much that he rarely does it, but he _can. _He has never heard of a daemon becoming a person, but perhaps, just perhaps, he is exceptional in that area, too?

He decides to try it and find out.

* * *

A question:

How is it _unnatural, _to do something perfectly within his physical capabilities?

No one seems to have an answer for this. Odo has many questions without answers, it always seems. The Cardassians, for their part, seem amused. "He can take Bajoran shape," they mock. "But not a Cardassian shape." And this is true. He amuses them further by being able to mimic the Cardassian neck-ridges, but more precise details are too difficult – the facial structure, the scales, the leathery hide. It leaves the Bajorans bitter, like Odo has betrayed them.

As though he has ever had a _choice _about his abilities.

Still, whatever resentment the Bajorans might hold for this form, its purpose is won. The Cardassians, out of nothing more than an apparent whim, give him an actual _job –_ salary and all – on the transporter loading bay. A small position, but for a lone daemon, unprecedented.

Something is changing.

* * *

Years pass swiftly. Time is a strange thing. Bajorans, Cardassians, and even their daemons talk about the passage of time as something concrete, solid, immoveable – a linear flow as physical as the movement from point A to point B. But sometimes Odo doesn't feel like that at all. Sometimes – and these years pass as such – times melts easily together, smoothly, and only small patches stick out. Sometimes, like now, brief moments of the past seem to melt into the present.

Dr. Mora, saying, "His person could die at any time, poof, and he'll just disappear."

Little Tera: "Are you my Reditiva?"

"The Prophets always have a plan," the Vedek tells him.

And, now, on the cold transporter bay, with the impatient Cardassian shifting from foot to foot in front of him.

"Well?" the man asks. "Yes or no. I can find someone else."

"Yes, I'll come," says Odo hastily, before the man can change his mind. He hastily moves onto the transporter pad.

And as the shimmering beam takes him to Terok Nor, he begins to plot how he can escape the station – escape Bajor – and finally begin his search.

* * *

If Bajor was a hard place, Terok Nor is brutal. Bajor was, if nothing else, obscenely large; it is easy to turn a blind eye to tragedy when you can escape to another part of the planet. The enclosed environment of a space station creates an entirely new microcosm, and Terok Nor's society is singular and unforgiving.

The Bajorans live – and primarily work – in a fenced-off ghetto. The whole station is run with grim, military efficiency, ever alert to possible insurgency attempts, always quick to quell any hint of Bajoran happiness just in case it proves contagious. It's a desolate place made worse by the whims of the flippant station leader, Gul Dukat – a vaguely familiar name – and Odo has enough to worry about just building his own reputation without worrying about the Bajorans.

Gruff, stern, invulnerable. Never show a weakness. It becomes almost a motto. It's hard enough to be respected in his own right without people starting to pity the lost daemon without a partner. And if he offends people – infuriates them, even – all the better. When people are angry they forget to doubt your intelligence, your sentience. Odo can work with anger, but not dismissal.

He tells himself that, anyway. And even as an unbound daemon, he still has it better than some of the Bajorans.

* * *

When he's not working at the loading docks Odo just wanders the station, learning what he can. Sometimes he does talk to daemons, just because other daemons don't act like he's something strange or bizarre, and also because once he talks to someone's daemon, that person seems much more receptive to him themselves. It's a curious tendency. Odo isn't yet certain if this is because a daemon-daemon interaction is just vital to social interactions, or just because people think it's more 'appropriate', but he shamelessly uses it to his advantage.

Eventually people – mostly Bajorans, but sometimes Cardassians – start bringing him small problems. Odo doesn't mind settling a minor dispute, or helping find a lost item, or mediating an argument. It's not as though he has a plethora of exciting hobbies, after all. It's nice to contribute something, and he starts to get a certain reputation as someone dependable.

And independently sentient. The 'sentient' thing is very important, too.

Then Gul Dukat approaches Odo, talking about an offer and a murder, and things get... interesting.

* * *

"I don't choose sides," Odo tells Kira Nerys when he first meets her. When he says it, he even means it.

"That's why all of you come to me with problems," he tells her. "I'm the outsider. I'm on no one's side. All I'm interested in is justice. If you're innocent, you'll go free. If you're not, I'll turn you over to Cardassian authorities. That's the only choice here."

What does that even mean?

Because it doesn't mean – it _can't _mean – following the law. Not when the law is written by Cardassians, enforced by Cardassians who want nothing more than to stamp down the Bajoran spirit until her people are dispersed and destroyed.

So when Odo catches the thief – a young boy, already on probation due to blatant string-pulling from his family, already a step away from execution – sneaking from the quarters of a visiting Gul...

"If you're stupid enough to get caught on the way to the ghettos, that's on your head," Odo warns the frozen teen. And he steps aside.

And it's at this moment that he realizes it. Odo can't abandon these people – not when he can help them, not when leaving holds almost no hope for himself. Not when this chaos would be his legacy.

Terok Nor – Bajor – is the only home he has.

Bitter, broken, and horrible as it is.

* * *

So Odo stays. He keeps order.

Rarely, subtly, he helps.

Sometimes this just means doing what little he can do to buy time. One of the smallest and most risky things he does is act as a stand-in for newly-Settled bug daemons. Cardassian daemons, for a reason no one fully understands, never settle as bugs. Subsequently, Cardassians consider insect-daemons as a whole to be a sign of an inferior mind, and Bajorans unlucky enough to meet this end are frequently shipped off to labor camps. And in a society where being unseen is a virtue, bug daemons are becoming more and more common.

Other times he hides Bajorans – using his strange, inorganic shifting abilities to form a wall or other shapes to hide out-of-bounds workers from Cardassians. Other times it's as easy as shuffling Bajorans quickly from point A to point B, or trying to quick-talk Gul Dukat into a lesser punishment, usually – disgustingly – through blatant flattery.

The Bajorans thank him, frequently. Odo doesn't like that much.

He could do so, so much more, but...

(Sometimes, sometimes, he suspects he is very selfish; and the worst feeling is to suspect that he helps the Bajorans purely to offset his own guilt).

* * *

His relationship with the Bajoran named Kira Nerys grows in fits and starts. She is clearly still wary of him after the circumstances of their first meeting, but then increasingly curious. Almost, at times, a little affronted. About a week afterward she comes up to him, pokes him blatantly on the chest – imagine that, boldly poking a daemon! - and demands, "I heard about Relan. What happened to not choosing sides?"

Odo isn't sure what she's talking about.

"The kid," she clarifies. "You don't even know his name, do you?"

"I'm here to carry out justice," Odo says. "- Not necessarily Cardassian justice. Or Bajoran, for that matter."

Kira stares at him. Then she starts to look amused. "So you think _you're _the law?"

"Someone should be."

The huge bird-daemon on Kira's shoulder whistles and chirrups. "I don't think the Cardassians are going to go for that," Kira says. "And what gives _you _the right, anyway?"

"What gives _them _the right?"

The smile fades from her lips.

"... -Well," Kira says, "I guess I can't argue with that, can I?"

* * *

The Cardassians are leaving.

It's a time for celebration. For trepidation, certainly, but mostly celebration. Odo can't imagine that anything to come can be worse than what the Cardassians have inflicted on the Bajorans.

The evacuations start rapidly. Now that the retreat is official, the Cardassians are in a hurry to get out of Bajoran space before their soldiers can get left behind, as though concerned that terrorists will pick off any slackers... which, to be fair, is a legitimate issue.

Which means that Odo is soon doing rounds in the free station – _Deep Space Nine – _and, to no one's greater surprise than his own, he has been made an official member of the Bajoran militia. He's even been given the rank of 'Constable', which doesn't, technically, exist. He's not sure if Kira's recommendation was just that strong, or if his status as a daemon makes him special, but he doesn't much care. Odo doesn't like change, so this – this is good.

Sometimes, distantly, he still thinks about leaving. About scrounging up a shuttle and just traveling the stars, searching for a lost soul without a daemon. That lonely person who must, _must _exist. But he wouldn't even know where to begin. The very thought...

Better to stay, in the life he knows, and hope.

For now, he needs to prepare for the arriving Federation. A bitter thing, to give over joint ownership of the station just as the Cardassians are leaving, but it's not Odo's decision. He decides to start with the obvious.

"Quark! Where are you?"

"I didn't do anything!"

Quark's magpie daemon, Yooga, circles his head and cackles in Odo's direction. He scowls at her, crossing the empty bar and scanning it automatically as he walks.

Though imported originally from Earth, magpies are now considered quintessentially Ferengi creatures. A startling number of Ferengi have magpie daemons, just as a startling number of Vulcans have earth felines, which is really the deciding factor. _Humans sure do get around,_ he thinks grumpily.

"What do you want?" Quark demands suspiciously.

Now, Odo has no respect for Quark's sort. None. None at all. But it is also hard to have active _disdain _for him, when the Ferengi sells – no, _sold_ food to Bajoran workers wholesale (on odd numbered days) and let frightened children hide behind the bar when Cardassian soldiers passed through.

So Odo looks at him – and looks, very long, very pointedly, at the protruding bag of contraband spices peaking out of the box by Yooga's perch.

Annoyed, Quark turns to see what he's staring at. And rapidly pales.

"I – Yooga, who put that there?" Quark demands, high-pitched.

Yooga snorts, clacking her bill together. Even _she _isn't buying that one.

"Pity it's so dark in here," says Odo loudly. "I can barely see a thing."

Quark gapes at him.

"Today," he warns.

And _only _today.

But in the future – he'll be watching.

* * *

Odo's first meeting with Commander Sisko - "Who the hell are you?" - is too fleeting for any real impression. His second meeting, later that same day in the man's new office, leaves him more guarded.

"Constable," the Commander greets. "I'm glad we can talk under better circumstances."

Odo grunts in not-quite-agreement. "With all due respect, Commander, I have to agree with Major Kira; I don't think the provisional government was right to request Federation aid at this juncture. But it's not up to me. Still, if you're expecting a warm welcome, you're at the wrong place." He meets the human's eyes squarely for a long moment. Then he looks behind the man.

Sisko's daemon is a great, hulking feline – a born predator. Her fur is ochre-yellow and ringed with black whorls that ripple as she slouches into the room. A massive tail flicks through the air. Her golden eyes assess him coolly, as if to say, _You want to say that _again?

Odo resists the surely-childish urge to turn into an even _bigger _cat.

When he turns back, the human is watching him thoughtfully.

"You're in a unique position, Constable," Sisko observes.

"Is that a threat?"

Sisko seems honestly surprised. "It wasn't intended to be."

"I've spent my whole life surrounded my Cardassians, Commander. Speak plainly or assume I'm going to read into it."

Sisko frowns. " - I'm not sure what I meant," he says at last.

"I'm just as capable as any human security officer."

"I never said you weren't."

"And I'm perfectly capable of looking after the station."

"Of course."

"And - "

"Constable," Sisko interrupts, not unkindly, "If you were incapable, I very much imagine the Bajorans - and especially Major Kira - would have let me know. I have full confidence in your capabilities."

"He doesn't know how to respond to that.

" - Well, good." Odo mutters awkwardly, and leaves.

* * *

"Did you know," The young Federation CMO, Dr. Bashir, tells him eagerly later that day, "That there are some non-carbon based lifeforms that don't have daemons at all? The horta, for example. And there's been great debate on whether or not Commander Data can be considered sentient since he doesn't have one... Though, there's usually some sort of substitute, of course - "

"Has there been any debate on whether daemons themselves are fully sentient?" Odo asks.

"Well of course not," Bashir says, surprised. "I mean, not that I know of."

Even Bashir's otter-daemon seems miffed.

"Right," Odo says. "Doctor, I think I'll have deputy Nefyr go over the rest of this with you later today, if you don't mind."

"Oh, not at all, not at all. Nice meeting you, Constable."

"...Likewise."

* * *

Kira can act as stiff and aggressive as she likes, but Odo knows how she looks when she's excited. Kira's never been the most devout of women, but this whole Emissary business is clearly getting to her, too. The atmosphere of the whole station has lightened. Suddenly the Federation isn't just a stranger; it's a friend who's sent an impossible, unlooked-for gift. A savior.

He waits around the turbolift for Kira at the day's end, and has the decency to curb his curiosity until they're alone. Though, he can't help but cast a few wondering glances in Sisko's direction himself. The man still doesn't seem like anything exceptional.

( - Though Odo is _entirely certain _that Sisko's daemon was a cat just this morning, when did that change - ?)

When they stop by his office, Kira is smiling at him. "I think it might be okay," she says. "Not in the same way, but..."

"A little harder to object to the Emissary's presence, isn't it?"

"It's not just that. Well, okay, mostly that," she admits at Odo's incredulous look. With a little laugh, she adds, "But, Odo, you can't tell me it's not different."

"Of course it's different. This is an alliance, not an occupation."

"And they _care,"_ Kira insists. "You're a Constable now, Odo, and it's not just a nickname or something to make the workers happy. You're not – you're not an experiment."

"I could be. We don't know them yet."

"I know the Prophets. Bajor's finally made herself free. Freedom, real freedom – can you believe it?"

She grins, squeezing his arm. Suratal clicks his beak.

Freedom. No, he can't believe it – doesn't feel it. Freedom for the Bajorans, maybe, is at hand. Which is a good thing. But for himself...

He watches Suratal take off from the major's shoulder, wheeling far overhead to circle around the Promenade.

Freedom for him means something a little different. Odo isn't sure he's found it yet – but he thinks he's at least made a step in the right direction.


	2. Tender Links

Among the memory of the Link there is a word that is both sacred and cursed. _Cresela. _To some, a memory; to others, a lesson.

To all of them, in the shared mind of the great connection, it means _home, _and it means _betrayal._

* * *

There is no memory of the first pair. That is like asking of the first fish to develop lungs, or the first air-breathing creature to crawl across the sand. But as long as the Creselans _were_, the fluid-shifting Companions walked by their sides.

Not always so fluid, though – not then.

* * *

There is not a first, but there are notable stories.

Terden is the most notable early philosopher whose writings survive intact to the Sundering.

Terden's daemon takes the form of a maelektic fox in his latter years. He claims the creatures' wide ears signify that he possesses a corresponding ability to hear the voices of the gods, which is widely believed. He also widely encourages that stringent scientific methods should be applied to all research, which is not. Still, he is well remembered for his theories about the causes of Settling, dual partner death, Separation pain, and early daemon shapeshifting.

Terden is also the first philosopher to write about – to predict – the vague possibility of Severing.

* * *

In the year 870 by the Creselan standard calendar – their last standard calendar, anyway – a fad starts to develop in the eastern hemisphere based on Terden's writings. It becomes fashionable, among aristocrats, to fight daemon against daemon. Teenagers with Unsettled daemons have their partners shift in competitions of creativity, and some bold few – the very bravest – see how far their bonds can stretch.

Some of them stretch these bonds so far the bonds seem to _break._

But there's no permanent damage, of course. You _can't _damage a bond.

* * *

Separation, people start to say, isn't such a bad thing. Oh, sure, your daemon resents you awhile, and people say it's really difficult, but only if you do it the hard way, walking across a desert or some such. And who wants _that?_

As time goes on, it gets easier and easier to Separate. A plane can go up into the atmosphere, and a daemon will be confined as a Creselan sky-dives. A Creselan and his daemon can be put on vehicles facing opposite directions, drugged asleep, only to awaken hours later pulled apart. Easy. Simple.

And after, well, then you have _options, _don't you? It's so much easier, being able to move away from a daemon. Not natural, some say, but...

Well, times change.

* * *

On some planets, Separation never really takes off. Typically it becomes _known, _through one way or another. Some terrible tragedy forces apart forces apart humanoid and daemon, they're reunited, and afterward their bond is affected. On planets like Earth, Separation is the source of myth and legend. It's spoken of in conjunction with magic and sorcery, with witchcraft and ghosts and gods. In certain cultures the Separated were once revered. On Qonos all warriors who reach the status of general are expected to undergone the pain of Separation, as an ultimate test; but Vulcans, for reasons they refuse to discuss with anyone, consider the business dangerous and avoid Separation at all costs. Betazoids outright shun their Separated.

But Cresela is especially unique. Because Separation becomes neither revered nor reviled, which are the two usual statuses. Instead, it is studied, found good, employed, and made _normal._

There is a reason this pattern is not seen more frequently. People from Earth might refer to the natural tendency as _Darwinism._

* * *

By the time Cresela is making it's first tentative in-solar system space explorations, Separation is the norm.

In fact, it's considered strange for someone to _not _be Separated by the time they're an adult. Inconvenient, too, and plain inconsiderate of others, who will have to be careful not to get between you and your daemon. So typically people get Separated now just as a matter of course, if nothing else.

* * *

At one point, people realize that children fully Separated by the age of three sometimes have special daemons. Some one in eight not only permanently retain their shape-shifting skills, but also gain a new plasticity – the ability to transform into inorganic materials. Into non-living, or at least non-animal, material of any size or shape.

In the uproar of this discovery, the implications are not understood until far too late.

And the Separations continue.

* * *

Approximately ten years after the child Separation fad begins, two Separated, 'inorganic' daemons breed and have a child.

By themselves.

A child with no companion.

People notice.

* * *

Confusion. Understandable. Concern. Admirable. Then, almost, it becomes an obsession. Where is the child? Where could it be? There are false reports from all over the world, but the question is a mystery. Some people theorize that the strange new trend of infant Separating means that the child and daemon were born apart, but _where is the child?_

Then, another report.

A child in Itahin city dies of the flu. His Separated daemon lives – happily.

And now – now people start to panic.

* * *

Something, clearly, has to be done. No one is sure _what, _but _something. _Suddenly, everyone questions the 'inorganic' daemons, and the children bonded to them. Are the children sociopaths? Deranged? Are the defective daemons dangerous? There's no way to tell, but 'yes' seems like the obvious, inescapable answer.

So obvious, in fact, that it's taken for granted without any research.

So the next question: how to respond?

Then, from one source, a myth, a legend:

_Severing._

On a global scale.

Except no one tells the globe.

* * *

It takes four years to implement a plan the world doesn't know is coming. There is terror in the streets, and the new daemons, who are at their center unchanged, are bewildered at the resentment they face. They grow defensive. Maybe, if the new daemons could Settle, they would take tiny prey-forms like abused children do, and people would pause. Reconsider their own hatred.

They don't settle. When confronted, they rise. Look larger. Try to intimidate, instead.

It doesn't go over well.

* * *

The Sundering is quick.

Over twenty percent of the planet's population die the first day from sheer shock; more, rendered catatonic, die quickly in the upcoming weeks. They are listless, inert, helpless. Lost Creselans and daemons both wander the surface in a fog, unable to find their partners, unable to _feel _them if found. It is a mercy, really, to die.

Soon, only those few who have been fully Separated – and have 'inorganic' daemons – live. Ironically, these are the ones the Severing was most intended to help. But they, perhaps, suffer the most.

They live – but not happily, and not well. Something is missing. The Creselans have cut off their arms to stem a paper-cut, and now reel from the pain. And they are angry. The streets are gorged and stinking with the dead, their daemons are gone, and world is empty, and for _what?_

But the daemons are just as furious, just as betrayed, and, in a different way, maddened. Perhaps if that old Creselan philosopher were still alive he would say that the key difference between the daemons and the Creselans is freedom. The daemons are dependents made strong – the Creselans are masters made powerless, without subjects, and they are lost. With blood literally flooding the streets, and angry accusations on all sides, well.

War is really inevitable.

And when one side is capable of shape-shifting, is it hard to imagine who wins?

* * *

The no-longer-daemons cannot stay surrounded by the billions of unburied dead. They leave, soaring through space as one unending body, beautiful, tragic. It is the first and last time the Link takes to space, and also the first time there _is _a Link. It is there, on the slow journey for a new home, that the changelings start to heal – but they also speak among themselves, and stew in their fury over the long months of travel. Bitterness grows, and when they land on Kurill Prime the edges of the Link are hard with fear and suspicion.

There, on that small and forested world, they meet the Vorta. The Vorta, small and gentle, prey to a larger race of sentient predators. The Vorta, clever but as-yet without daemons. The Vorta, who show them kindness unlooked-for, and expect nothing.

The Vorta, who, when the predators are dead, look up to _them._

They are Founders to a new world. There are no daemons.

There will never be daemons again.


	3. Heart and Home

Before the Occupation, when Kira Meru is just a tiny girl, she wins a race on a neighbor's farm.

Her half-grown verdanis is a big, vain creature, and he prances and prances when they reach the finish line. She giggles uncontrollably when they get to the end, falling all over herself. She laughs so hard the farmer has to come over and help her off, grinning at her.

"On a verdanis you can outrun near enough anything," he tells her. "If you want to."

The long-limbed bird prances a little more, craning his long neck, than wanders away. Meru's daemon, Tyundu, watches it go with a wistful eye.

"Course," the farmer adds, "that's most for show, the running. I mostly keep 'em for the feathers."

* * *

At first, people laugh at the Cardassians.

"The Prophets will save us," they say. "Look at these godless creatures, hissing and spitting like fiends. How can they hope to defeat us?"

But it isn't a defeat, in the end. Meru is young, but that much becomes clear. Bajorans laugh at first, but the laughing turns to uneasy mutters when the governmental leaders bow down, letting the Cardassians worm their way into Bajoran space. No one likes the Cardassians – the way they look down their noses at the Bajorans, waving their long, reptilian necks and scenting the air.

"Like they're looking for prey," says Meru's mother once, and it seems all too apt a comparison.

Meru clutches her daemon to hide her face when Cardassians stomp by in the streets, always wearing their big boots, always laughing at her with their strange dry breath and snake-skin scent. Always, always going somewhere important. No one ever seems quite sure what the Cardassian business is on Bajor – not anyone Meru knows as a child, anyway – but it's bad.

And then one day, meetings are called all over the planet, all at once. The government leaders are silent. The Kai is gone. And the Cardassians come before the cities, and say, welcome us. We are here. We will be your salvation.

* * *

Meru runs for different reasons, after the Cardassians. There is little joy in the gray days that blur her middling years. But she continues to run, and she grows tall and lean, a knobby-kneed, sprawling girl who can dart off like a flash at the sound of combat boots. "A snake," people predict of her, clucking their tongues and touching their ears in sorrow. Once, a snake daemon was not such a bad thing. That was before the Occupation.

And then one day she is running from a guard – nothing new, nothing extraordinary. Tyundu nips at her heels, giggling, as Meru dives and wiggles into a small crevice between two trees. The _glinn_ guard pursuing her stumbles past, cursing over brambles that catch at his feet.

She congratulates herself on being very clever indeed, and stretches out her feet. When she can no longer hear the guard, she pokes out her head -

"Freeze!"

\- and, without a sound, bolts.

But Meru is young, for all her years of running. She feels the guard gaining, hears the edge of his laughter on the wind. Her feet slap the dry ground, sending lances of pain up the soles of her feet, and she gasps for breath. She isn't going to make it. She isn't -

Then Tyundu shifts beside her, growing. Without a thought she throws herself onto the daemon's back, and the Cardassian screams with disappointment as they race away, her hand clutched in Tyundu's new feathers.

Slowly, Meru lowers her head, resting her cheek against her dear friend's neck. Her heart beat slows. Calms.

_Settles_.

* * *

Meru marries a subdued man with a quiet hyurin daemon, small and meek. Not a strong choice. But a smart choice, because he is kind to her, and loves her, and because he knows to bow his head when the Cardassians snarl, which means he lives.

They have children, Reon and Pohl and a darling little girl, Nerys, who looks just like Meru. But it is hard, and harder all the time, to live under the Occupation. As time progresses Meru turns to her husband, Taban, and asks, "Were they kinder, when they first came to Bajor? Were there camps when the Cardassians came? I do not remember the camps." But Taban looks at her blankly. He is younger than her, and he does not remember life before the Cardassians.

Sometimes, she pretends not to remember either. But at night she curls up with her children, her darling children, and tells them stories of the old days.

She thinks that Nerys and her little daemon, Suratal, are always the most eager listeners. Nerys, she decides, has a true creative spirit.

* * *

Many people come to regret the forms their daemons take. Souls who long to be brave want big, ferocious daemons that can protect them, and often get tiny rodents instead. Souls that are clumsy and want to be unnoticed get huge, lumbering livestock. But Meru loves, loves, loves her verdanis, right up until the Occupation, right up until the day the Cardassians come through her camp and tell the prettiest women to line up in a row.

It's hard to go unnoticed when you have a verdanis daemon. You stick out of the group immediately, is the thing. Meru is covered in a dozen layers of grime and dirt and dust, just like all the women around her. She's made basic attempts at self-hygiene – something her family and the families of women like hers will later mourn bitterly – but really it's hard to see her natural beauty at a glance. Fear, hunger and fatigue have leeched away her vigor and brightness, and she looks more prepared to enter a hospital than anything.

But her verdanis is sleek and strong and tall, and he stands out from all the other daemons. He is enough to earn her a second glance, a third, and once the Cardassians look closer they see what the environment has hidden. They see what a good bath and some feeding might unleash.

So they pick her. They take her.

And Kira Nerys never sees Meru again.

* * *

Things are hard, when Meru leaves. Nerys and her family receive better food, but it is difficult to understand the 'death' of a loved one. It is not the same as the death of a stranger, or corpses glimpsed in the night, quickly shielded from sight by Mother's protective hand. That is something distant, other – unrelated to Nerys's own life, and something she has always accepted.

But now Meru is gone, and Nerys is fascinated with death.

She is fascinated with death because it is an _easy_ interest, when it pervades the whole encampment. The dead and dying are everywhere, if one chooses to look as Nerys now does. She catalogs the protruding cheekbones of her starving neighbors, learns the wet cough of the truly ill. And she notes – must note - how the oily-skinned Cardassians never become afflicted by either. Because they, of course, have access to better resources. Because they _hoard_ their resources. She watches, and learns how the Cardassians steal from her people, brutalize them – sometimes outright, savagely kill them.

It makes her angry.

It makes her want to do something _back_.

* * *

"Your mother sacrificed herself for us," Taban tells Nerys. "She was the bravest woman I ever knew."

Nerys does not remember her mother as she ages. She has a memory of hair like her own, soft strands glimmering red and bright against the drabness of the camp interior. She remembers gentle, smiling eyes that crinkled at the corners and a light voice telling her stories of the Prophets and before-times, times without Cardassians. Stories she loved and stories she cannot remember at all, except through vague, misty impressions.

But she remembers her mother's daemon. A verdanis daemon, huge and warm and imposing. Warm like her mother. And brave, she thinks privately. Surely braver than her father's tiny little rodent, though this is an unworthy thought; her father does the best he can.

Suratal tries to be a verdanis, but it makes Taban turn away when he does this. "We'll practice in private," Suratal whispers, nudging Nerys in the side. And she nods.

There is a lot to practice, and many forms to perfect. The Cardassians make this necessary.

Pohl and Reon, her brothers, depend on Nerys to protect them. It doesn't matter that Pohl is only one year younger than Nerys, or that Reon is older. Their mother is dead. And Taban does what he can, but all the Bajorans can say the same, and still they are prisoners to the Cardassians.

'All they can' means very little, these days.

So Kira is the one to stroke her brothers' hair when they are afraid and wide-eyed at night, listening to the boots of Cardassian overseers walking by the camp. She stands in front of them during the workday, distracting attention when a _glinn_ is in a foul-temper. She is loud and bold and brash, and does it matter that she receives a slap or a beating, if her brothers do not?

"Of course it does," says her father, helpless, when she says as much. "Of course it does, Nerys..."

"I can stand it better," she says, and that is that.

She is quick, too. It makes her laugh to steal from the Cardassians; there is a petty delight in that.

"Ah, ah, they will never notice us," Suratal murmurs.

The Alenis matriarch is ill. The theft of a simple emergency kit from one of the Cardassian tents will go a long way toward her recovery... but only if Nerys is quick, and silent.

"I could cause a distraction," suggests Suratal, as Nerys glances around.

"No. I don't see anyone. Come on."

She knows that the Cardassians have technologies that she doesn't comprehend. Bajorans – at least Bajorans in the Singha refugee camp - aren't usually permitted access to anything complex, so she isn't certain what sort of defenses might be lurking around the place. She sends in Suratal ahead of her as a barrowbug to be cautious.

He travels as far as he can, disappearing from her sight into the camp. Soon they both start to feel uncomfortable from the stretch of their bond. When he returns, he says, "No one is in. Go, quick."

She scoops him up and moves.

The tent is large, and for Bajorans could house a few families; for the Cardassians, it is a temporary structure, and the entrance is pinned open. "This is how you attract predators," she hears Suratal grumble softly as they slip inside, and the thought makes her smile.

She rifles around. It is tempting, so tempting, to steal more than what she came for. She does pocket some fruit from a nearby basket, but she only longingly eyes the disruptor lying in plain sight against the far wall. The disappearance of a medical bag will be received with lectures to the camp, and threats; the disappearance of a weapon could very well result in random killings as a show of force.

But...

Suratal shifts into a zhom pup. The wolfish canine looks between her and the weapon, eyes gleaming.

"Well?" he asks.

They _might_ not realize... They might not retaliate, and even if they do... wouldn't the chance be worth it, for a weapon like this? Wouldn't the possibility be worth it? Wouldn't it...

Suratal whines softly. Nerys finds and clutches the light green medical bag with its distinctive insignia, then looks at the disruptor.

Slowly, she starts forward...

"Don't move."

She breathes in, sharply, and turns her head.

Gul Bronar's grip on his own disruptor is strong and sure. The alien, scaled feline daemon by his side hisses at Nerys. "Come with me," he orders.

She does.

That day the Cardassians whip Nerys; and they whip three older women, too, chastising them for not watching the children of the camp properly. Her clothes are torn into strips; hot blood falls down to cake and dry on her back, stiffening into place. She aches with every pulse of her heart, and every ache reminds her that she lives.

Some people avert their eyes, when she limps back to her home that night. Others nod to her, in solidarity, and are wordless. They do not blame her. There is no point in blaming other Bajorans for anything.

Taban is waiting; he has heard the news, she realizes when she sees his pale face and shaking hands. Reon and Pohl are sitting nervously by his side; their father forgets them to run forward, hugging her to his brood chest.

Nerys leans forward, accepting the gesture, but does not return it.

"Nerys, Nerys. Are you alright?"

Suratal is a zhom again. He lets out a wolfish laugh.

"I suppose," she says.

Nerys is glad that she never took the weapon, because she knows now, after the day's atrocities, that the fury of the Cardassians would have been unmatched.

She is also bitter; because, she should have took the weapon. If she had, perhaps she could have killed the gul who had entered the room and found her.

Taban looks at his daughter. "What are you thinking?" he wants to know.

She considers this. She is thinking many things.

Her daemon blinks up at her. His wolfish eyes gleam, then change, becoming small.

"We're not that great at going unnoticed," Nerys sighs. Suratal crawls over her foot, mimicking the form of her father's hyurin.

Taban is quiet a moment, one hand touching her hair. "No," he says finally. "No, you're not."

* * *

Lupaza has warm eyes and red hair. When she reaches out a hand to pull Nerys from the crevice where she's been crouched, cramped and desperate, for nearly two days, the child's mouth forms the word, 'mother?'. But then she catches sight of Lupaza's daemon – a mature tokka - and the sight of the tracking-dog makes her heart sink. The word dies against her lips.

Lupaza tells her that the Cardassian who had been hunting her is dead; she does not ask Nerys why she was being hunted, and so Nerys does not tell her.

She does ask, "Is it safe for you to go back to your home?"

And Nerys, lying, says, "No."

Because she knows that Taban will be worrying for her, and she knows her brothers are young and afraid and alarmed. She also knows that she has a bad mouth and a bad reputation, and she can't stay quiet forever. She is starting to bring them more trouble than protection. And she knows innately that this woman – this Lupaza – presents something. An opportunity.

So Lupaza looks her up and down, and says, "Come. We can shelter you for a few days."

And Nerys follows.

* * *

If the camps were hard, the Shikaar resistance cell is full of grimmer people still. These Bajorans are outlaws in earnest. They live in the same atmosphere of constant fear as all of Bajor; but if found by Cardassian troops, they will be executed immediately with only the Cardassian's farcical notion of a trial as comfort.

They have little food – usually only what can be stolen or hunted. There are few to no comforts. But -

But there is freedom, too. Nerys watches one woman, Laren, smile and tell her friend an old legend of the Prophets that Nerys has never heard; it is a story that would earn a punishment, if Cardassians heard, but here people only smile. And there is laughter, quiet though it is, with no one to say that it is wrong to laugh.

Shakaar is strange. She does not know what to think of him. The woman seem to hang about his word, and she does not approve of this, this blind adoration. But he walks around the camp carefully, always a little more serious than the others, neck swaying from side to side as he watches and listens. A show of constant vigilance that is too practiced to be feigned, and too instinctual to be new, or even conscious. His zhom daemon has scraggly fur, and none of the attractive qualities of the man; but by strange contrast, the beast's eyes are warm. He cares for his people, she is certain of that. More, she can't yet say.

...She wants to stay.

Suratal has taken the form of a verrior – a small, color-shifting lizard. Lizard daemons are not popular these days; it gains them black looks when people notice. He rides her shoulder as Lupaza approaches. "A few of our people are going to be scouting out for supplies soon," the woman tells her. "They're stopping by a village nearby at nightfall; we need to move soon, anyway. You can go with them and try and slip in."

"I don't need to," Nerys says.

"Excuse me?"

"I want to join you. The cell, I mean."

Lupaza stares.

"You're just a child."

"That doesn't mean anything to the Cardassians."

"No," says Lupaza, because it doesn't. "But it means something to us."

"I can fight."

"There's more to being in a cell than fighting. Can you think on your feet? Can you stand and keep moving if your partner falls? Can you leave someone behind, if you have to? Would you sacrifice yourself, if it came to it, for the good of Bajor?"

"Yes."

Lupaza looks at her. Looks at her like Nerys hasn't thought of these things, already.

"...I need to talk to Shikaar," she says.

"You do that."

Everyone is against her, it seems, when Nerys' desire is known. But Shikaar is silent on the matter. He will say nothing. Finally, when everyone has argued and worried the issue between them, Lupaza asks, "What do you think, Shikaar?" and he says, "We shall see."

So they give a chance, because Shikaar's word is law, though she doesn't much like this, either.

Eventually they do indeed move the cell. Lupaza stays with Nerys and guides her on how to move low and quick. There are scouts ahead and behind, and everyone is being cautious, but they could be seen by Cardassians anytime. Sensor equipment does not work in the Kola Mountains, but eyes still do.

The disruptor fire begins around noon.

"Get down!" The shouts come from all around. Lupaza shoves Kira down, and they scramble for cover behind the nearest outcropping of rock.

Kira has a small disruptor pistol of her own, an ancient piece of tech that is all the cell could afford to loan her. She twists the dial to 'kill' and peers around the rocks.

The Cardassians do not outnumber them; not even close. But they are fit and sleekly outfitted, healthy, bright-eyed. Under the harsh sun their scales shine. She can see the light reflecting from the spoons in their heads even from this distance.

Then, some start coming out from hiding places. Closer. Closer.

"Run," yells Shikaar. And they do.

It is as organized a retreat as they can manage, with the group shooting over their shoulders to deter the Cardassians. But soon a horrible yipping starts. Two Cardassians have brought riding hounds with them, and they are leaping forward. Buying time. Trying to slow the cell enough to let the others catch up.

They shoot Laren in the shoulder, and she falls. The cell does not flinch, and continue their retreat. Then:

"Stand," Shikaar says. "Here. Now."

The cell obeys.

At first, Nerys is angry. Why is he giving up? What is he trying to accomplish?

In a rush, though, she sees their position; suddenly on higher, level ground, with a steep slope before them where the Cardassians must rush them. Defensible.

Her hands are trembling.

"Easy," Lupaza says.

When the full force of the Cardassians arrive, it is a gruesome fight. The Cardassians surely cannot win; they fight, anyway, and she sees confidence in them. And despite their losses, they do damage that cannot be undone. Two more Bajorans fall – no, three. They do not rise again.

Then, one of the Cardassians turns toward Lupaza and Nerys. His limping riding hound snarls from one side, a nearly identical daemon growling on the other.

Nerys shoots; but her pistol sputters, and dies, and does nothing.

Lupaza is turned away when the hound leaps for her; Nerys throws away the useless disruptor and lunges.

She goes down in a snarl of blood and ruined flash, grappling with the beast's bony limbs. Teeth flash by her ear. Suratal is screaming near her neck. Nerys twists up and _pushes_, kicks, then rolls over. She shoves the muzzle of the hound up with her arm, and bites a flailing leg that comes in front of her mouth. She hears a high-pitched squeal.

She takes hold of the hound's ruff,and digs through fur to find his neck. She starts to squeeze.

"No!"

She looks up.

The Cardassian is coming for her, his daemon caught in another fight. For a moment her heart leaps, and she wonders what to do.

Just a moment.

Suratal wiggles away, and then suddenly he's shifting, merging, changing. He soars through the air, screaming his fury through the wind, and rears his talons back. The Cardassian cries as his eyes are ripped out, clasping his head. Blood streams down his face.

And Nerys turns away, already preoccupied with more important things.

When the hound is dead she turns from the weeping blind man and moves to another Cardassian who is harassing a fellow rebel. She leaps on him from the back, and her blood sings when Suratal tears at his daemon from above.

The battle is over soon. It stops very suddenly; one moment, she is beating the shoulders of a Cardassian and shoving him into the dirt; the next, there are no enemies left. There are two prisoners – one Cardassian with a broken leg, and the man Suratal maimed. Everyone else is either dead or has fled.

There is no time for more than perfunctory grief. The bodies must be hidden, the sight of the battle obliterated. They must flee this place before reinforcements come. But as they ready themselves to leave, Lupaza comes to Nerys. "Your daemon touched a man," she says. "He touched a man in violence."

Nerys nods. "Yes."

"And he knew what he was doing?"

"He would have killed that Cardassian, if he could have."

And Lupaza seems to think about this as they walk.

When they return to camp, the deeds of Nerys are discussed. Because she cannot, surely, be a probationary member any more... not now. Not after this.

And anyway, she is no longer a child, is she? "Her daemon is settled, after all," they say. And Nerys looks at Suratal, surprised to find that they are right – and she has not even noticed.

"Didn't I say?" Lupaza asks them. "Didn't I say? Look – she has the heart of a sinoraptor."

And so it is. Kira Nerys is a girl-child of twelve, fighting a war before her time, but from that day people look at her and say, "She is a warrior. A warrior. Look. She has the heart of a sinoraptor."

Many of them call her 'Kira' now, because she is a soldier and because soldiers are called by their last names. And also because, she knows, it distances people to do this, and it is good to be distant with those who are going to die.

* * *

Kira grows to love Shikaar. His eyes follow her, as she grows older and her body becomes taller, but she does nothing. There is a war, after all. What time does she have for love, and what good would it do, to distract such a good leader with her own life?

He is a good leader, at least. She has seen that. Sometimes it does not seem like it – sometimes when the food becomes short, and tempers shorter, and Shikaar disappears in a tent with a few women for 'warmth'. But she learns, eventually, this: he is just a mortal, like them all. He is frail, and flawed. And he is frightened.

She cannot fault him, or anyone, for that.

* * *

The Haru outpost has supplies vital to the cell. Not weaponry, though she would like to retrieve that, too. Not medicine, although that never hurts.

Food. Clean water, and filters. This is all she needs.

When she presses her body against the wall, tilting back her head so her breaths are thin and quiet, she can feel the bones of her ribs pressing against the fabric of her shirt. Above her, between the buildings and fences, the sky is black and stars gleam brightly. She could lose herself, watching those stars.

"You're going to get shot if you don't move," Suratal mutters in her ear.

He's a little big, to be perched on her shoulder. That's fine; his weight makes her stronger. She shakes herself. "Come on. The signal will come soon."

There are three different storage units around the outpost. She and two others have actually been sent to get inside the perimeter. Outside, an attack should be coming to serve as a distraction any moment now...

Someone screams.

Someone _inside_ the outpost.

Kira swears. She fumbles for her communicator. "Abort mission!" she snaps. "Retreat!"

She hears the crunch of boots, garbled shouts in Cardassi. She wavers. Run – help – or -

A disruptor blast flares past her ear. Run, then.

She turns and starts to sprint, pumping her legs. She weaves and ducks as another flare briefly illuminates her surroundings. Suratal takes off, wheeling through the sky and screeching his displeasure.

"I'll take care of this," he says.

She doesn't argue.

The shots stop abruptly; screams come, instead, and as she runs and the daemon-bond stretches and aches she can hear the distant flapping of wings against flesh. It grows faint behind her, and Kira's breathing grows labored.

She runs, still. She meets the other rebel – the survivor – and they flee together.

They arrive together back at camp, grimy, exhausted and defeated as dawn approaches. They will try again another day. Shikaar debriefs them as the cell readies for yet another move. He looks Kira up and down, and asks, "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"You're certain?"

"I'm sure."

He trusts her word – it is a foolish thing, to hide injuries that could fester. So they continue to speak for awhile. But abruptly he pauses, and a strange look comes to his eyes. "Kira," he says slowly. "...Where is Suratal?"

She sucks in a slow breath, and says nothing.

Suratal returns to camp hours later, his wings ruffled and bent. Kira holds him close to her, silently, and everyone looks away.

Shikaar looks at her differently, after that, and she tries not be bitter about the fact that she is now so useful to him in a way that no one really wants to be.

* * *

"You were meant to be a verdanis," she says one day. "Like my mother's daemon. She was the bravest woman in the world."

Suratal stretches his talons. "We can be brave, too, can't we?"

Kira draws up her knees, and thinks of all the people she has left behind. "...Oh, I hope so."

* * *

Kira is smuggled onto Terok Nor, the space-station outpost above Bajor, to retrieve a list of Bajoran collaborators. It is a task which troubles her deeply.

In her experience Bajorans help Bajorans. There are many evils in life, but that is a known truth: Bajorans are friends, if they can be; the Cardassians are enemies. Always.

The Cardassians are enemies, still, she consoles herself. The collaborators are cowards – but at least not deliberately evil. It is not quite a comfort. But it is something.

The... entity... called Odo is not a Cardassian or a Bajoran, though. She doesn't know how to classify him. It seems no one else does, either. Initially she wants to think he is an enemy – he is, after all, investigating for the Cardassians – but Bajorans on the station seem to trust him reasonably well. He was Bajoran-raised, she understands. When they first meet, he says, "I don't choose sides," but sometimes he helps them. And this puzzles her.

One day she hears about how Odo has caught a child named Relan stealing from the quarters of a gul... caught him, and let him go.

He seems actively confused when she tries to ask him about this.

"...You don't even know his name, do you?"

"I'm here to carry out justice," Odo replies. " - Not necessarily Cardassian justice. Or Bajoran, for that matter."

Kira stares at him awhile. A smile starts to appear. "So you think you're the law?"

"Someone should be."

Suratal whistles and chirrups. He seems thoughtful. "I don't think the Cardassians are going to go for that," Kira says. "And what gives you the right, anyway?"

"What gives them the right?"

The smile fades from her lips.

"...Well," Kira says. "I guess I can't argue with that, can I?"

* * *

The Cardassians are leaving.

Kira has been made a Major, by a 'provisional government'.

...Provisional.

That is an important word. Provisional.

An agreement has been made. The United Federation of Planets is coming to 'assist' Bajor, so they say, full of sympathy and concern. Even this station, Terok Nor, will be run by a Federation Commander, and called by a Federation name – Deep Space Nine. Some people call this liberation. Kira does not call trading one form of oppression for another, 'freedom'.

"You worry too much," says Odo, who can shapeshift and leave this place whenever he likes, if only he would. Who has no species, no attachments, no home.

"Do you trust them?" She asks.

His silence is answer enough.

But Kira is going to be on Terok Nor – 'Deep Space Nine' – for a long time. She will see what this Federation has to offer. She will learn, and decide for herself.

When the ship that carries the Federation officers comes, she stands by the windows and watches them come in. She cradles Suratal to her chest, bowing her head. "Do you think," she whispers, only for his hearing, "that we'll have to flee again? Or fight them?" she looks up. The ship is large. Gleaming. Powerful. "...Do you think we'll never have our own home?"

"Or maybe," Suratal murmurs sleepily, picking at her hair, "We could stay, and build a proper nest?"

...Kira strokes his feathers, and stares at the approaching ship. "Well," she says. "I guess we'll see, won't we?"


End file.
